“She draws stuff for medical textbooks to make money, but she’s given up painting the way she used to do it.”
I think of the pale face behind the blinds.
“Maybe she’d start up again?”
“No,” Lyle says. He doesn’t explain beyond that and I sense that I shouldn’t ask.
“Thanks for showing me a different walk home,” Lyle says as we get near his house. “Might keep me alive for a while longer.”
“What?” I nearly choke on the word. The image of fire flashes before my eyes.
“I’m just joking. I don’t think Axel will actually kill me, but at least this way I can get to school and back without any broken bones.” He spits out the last words. I look at the scab on his chin.
“Oh,” I say. “I wasn’t thinking about that.”
Lyle snorts. “What were you thinking? Is there some other threat to my life I don’t know about?”
“No, no. I mean, no, of course not,” I stutter. I’m not about to try to explain that I can see the future. “But you need to tell someone about what Axel did. You should tell your mom, or tell Mrs. Whipple or something. It’s not right.”
“It doesn’t help to tell people stuff like this. It only makes it worse,” Lyle replies.
That sounds wrong to me, but I’ve made my own choices about secrets, so I don’t argue.
Chapter Nine
WHEN I GET HOME, CARMEN IS SITTING at the kitchen table with a spread in front of her that looks fit for a banquet: three plates piled high with cinnamon donuts, oatmeal cookies, and banana chocolate chip muffins.
“Are we having a party?” I ask, sitting down and grabbing a muffin.
“No, I just wanted to make something nice for you,” Carmen says. She smiles at me, but her smile wavers. I put the muffin down.
“Just because?”
“I have to tell you something, Laney,” she says, twisting a strand of hair with her finger.
“Okay.”
“I’m leaving—” she begins, but her voice quivers. Her eyes fill with tears and she wipes them with the back of her hand, leaving a dark streak of mascara across her cheek.
“You’re leaving? Where are you going?” I try to imagine my life without Carmen in it. I think about coming home to an empty house every day, a house that’s too quiet without her laughter filling it. “You can’t leave Thornville.”
“Oh, Laney, I’m not really going anywhere. I’m leaving Walt.” His name comes out as more of a sob than a word. She wipes another streak across her cheek. For a moment I’m so distracted by the black marks on Carmen’s normally perfect face that I can’t process her words. I hand her a napkin and she dabs at her eyes.
“Does he know?”
“Yes, yes. I told him today.”
I don’t ask why. I know why. But Carmen tells me anyway.
“Remember when you were little and you said you saw me at my wedding? You were always such a sweet little girl, Laney. You still are.” She presses the napkin against her eyes and holds it there for a moment. “I want a wedding, Laney. Not just the wedding, I mean, but I want to get married, to live with you and your dad, to be a real family. Walt isn’t ready for that and I’m starting to realize that maybe he never will be.”
I look down at my hand and see that I’ve flattened the muffin under it. Crumbs scatter across the table.
“He’s not my dad,” I say, angry now. I clap my hand over my mouth. I’ve never told anyone that I know Walt isn’t my father. As upset as I am, I’m not ready to lose him.
“Oh, Laney, of course he’s your dad. Don’t say that,” Carmen says. I chew on a fingernail, relieved she didn’t take my outburst literally. “I know you might be mad at him—”
“What I mean is, it’s not right. It’s not fair to you or to me!”
“I know that he loves me, Laney, and he’s a good man. He has his reasons, but I just can’t—” She begins to cry again, unable to finish.
I wipe my muffin-smeared hand on my jeans. Then I pull my chair next to hers and lean my head against her shoulder. She leans her head on mine, her soft, chestnut brown hair falling over my face. She smells, as always, like perfume and cinnamon.
“I’ll still come see you sometimes, Laney. I talked to Walt about that already. I just won’t, you know, stay for dinner, or come over on the weekends or stuff like that. And for the next few weeks, I probably won’t come over as often in the afternoons because it’ll be hard for me to be here.”
“What are his reasons?” I ask her. “You said he has his reasons. What are they?”
She pulls away and looks at me.
“You know about Aster, Laney. He’s never really gotten over her.”
Aster is the name that Walt gave to my imaginary mother. I’ve never talked to Carmen about her, but apparently Walt told her the same story. Then I realize that maybe there really was an Aster and Walt really did love her. Maybe they even dreamed of having children together and then she died before they could.
“So, he loved her? And that’s why he can’t marry you?”
Carmen looks away. “Maybe you should ask Walt more about her. He doesn’t like to talk about it, but it’s only fair that you know about your mom.”
My stomach clenches. Walt told Carmen the same lie. She doesn’t know about the car seat or the yellow note.
The door opens and Carmen and I both look up. Walt is standing in the doorway. He looks like he’s aged ten years since I kissed him goodbye this morning. His bloodshot eyes glow like hot coals and his mouth is twisted unnaturally.
“I’m gonna get going,” Carmen whispers to me. She kisses my cheek before she goes. Walt steps back to let her pass.
“I’m sorry, Laney,” he says in a strangled voice. The door bangs as Carmen walks out.
“You should be!” I shout. I follow Carmen out. My stomach tightens as I climb the rungs of my tree house. I never argue with Walt. He’s always been good to me and I’ve never wanted to give him reason to regret bringing me in from that cold stoop. He took me when I was alone in the world and I’ll never forget that. It’s just that I don’t think I can stand to be in the same room with him tonight.
Chapter Ten
AFTER SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY, I’M SURPRISED to find Lyle already waiting for me at the bike rack.
“Still no bike,” he says, “But I thought you’d be here. I have something I want to show you.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll have to wait until you come to my house, but I think you’ll want to see it.”
“Can you give me a hint?”
“Nope.”
This time Lyle leads the way down the dirt path. I’m happy to have an excuse not to go home to an empty house.
“You changed your shirt,” I blurt out with relief as I read GOT SCIENCE? on the back of his navy blue T-shirt. Somehow I hadn’t noticed in class today.
“What?”
My face burns red. It wasn’t a nice thing to say.
“Nothing,” I tell him.
It’s a rare cloudy day for late September in Colorado. I breathe in the smell of fall as we walk—hay and dust with a twinge of cow manure. Behind us the school and the beige strip of stores that make up Thornville grow smaller. Ahead of us is nothing but rolling hills, a handful of trees, and scattered houses and farms. We take our time and don’t say much. I pluck pieces of grass as we go and chew on one of them, watching the feathery top of it bob up and down with each step.
“Teach me how to make that sound you made with the grass.”
Lyle plucks a piece of grass and places it upright between his two thumbs, cupping his other fingers around it.
“Hold it like this,” he says, extending his arms so that I can see the position of his hands. I pick a new piece and place it between my thumbs. “Now it’s simple. Just blow.”
I blow between my thumbs as hard as I can. It sounds like a fart. Lyle laughs until he starts sneezing again.
“Adjust the grass a little so
that it’s tight between your fingers. Then blow.” He demonstrates and makes another piercing sound.
As we walk up the hill, I attempt again with no luck.
“I can’t do it.”
“Clearly,” he says, laughing harder.
“Ha, ha,” I reply. Lyle begins to say something back, but I hold up my hand for him to stop. I hear voices but don’t see anyone.
“Who is that?” a voice calls from over the hill.
My eyes meet Lyle’s. We stop walking.
“Who’s up there?” someone yells again and I recognize the voice.
I hold a hand up to prevent Lyle from answering, but I can tell by his face that he knows Axel’s voice too.
We don’t move.
A cloud passing overhead casts a shadow across the hill. The voices on the other side start up again, hopefully having forgotten about us. I’m about to whisper to Lyle that we should turn around and walk the other way when I get a whiff of something sharp and unpleasant. It smells like smoke but has a chemical tinge to it. I remember the farmer burning hay in his yard yesterday and look around but see no sign of smoke.
“Let’s go,” Lyle whispers.
“Hold on a minute.” I crouch down and begin to climb the rest of the hill in a crawl. I look back at Lyle, who raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. I feel foolish, like a little kid playing a silly spy game, especially since the smell has disappeared with the breeze, but I need to see what’s over the hill.
When I near the top, I look over my shoulder. Lyle still hasn’t moved. I continue to crawl and nearly cry out when my shin bangs against a rock. I pull myself up to a crouch, rubbing my shin, and peer down below me. Axel and two other boys are huddled together. An instant later they break their huddle and throw something into the air. It’s a small object and it glows white-blue. It lands in the dry creek bed next to them and Axel stomps it out with his foot.
“Awesome!” one of the boys yells.
“Let’s do another,” Axel says, pulling something from a box. My heart pounds so hard in my chest it might burst right out and land on the cracked dirt in front of me, but I creep down a little farther.
A small box next to them reads GI JOE ACTION FIGURES in silver letters across the side. Axel lights another one of the green plastic figures on fire. I smell the smoky chemical odor again.
We are surrounded by dry fields. I can’t remember the last time it rained. A spark could set everything ablaze. There’s more than just the fear of the fire from my future flash gnawing inside of me. A lifetime of warnings about fire pumps through my veins and my heart races faster.
Something rustles behind me. Then Lyle’s arm brushes against mine. He wrinkles his nose at the smell. I worry that he’ll sneeze but he doesn’t make a noise.
Axel stomps on the second burning GI Joe. He inspects the bottom of his shoe.
“Nice one,” he says, pulling another out. My mouth feels like it’s full of dry dirt. When I try to swallow I make such a loud gagging sound that I’m sure they hear me. I hold my breath.
“Let’s do another,” Axel says, and I exhale.
Lyle motions for me to turn around.
Can I leave knowing that they could start a fire any minute? Does the fire I saw begin now, with these burning toys? Does Lyle run into a nearby house before the fire swallows the whole field and all of us in it?
Then I remember his shirt. Blue. Today is not the day.
I begin to follow Lyle back up the hill when something changes. It takes me a minute to figure out what it is. I no longer hear voices below me. A prairie falcon flies above me and I wonder if it’s the same bird I saw yesterday. This thought is running through my head when I turn around and see all three boys staring up at us.
Chapter Eleven
RUN!” I YELL TO LYLE. WE SCRAMBLE TO THE top of the hill and fly down the other side.
My legs feel as flimsy as pieces of grass, bending and wobbling beneath me. Ahead, Lyle loses his balance. His knee hits the ground but he pushes himself back up and manages to keep running.
“Losers!” Axel shouts from behind us. I don’t look back. I can’t tell if he is two feet or a mile away. I run. The air stings my lungs.
“Losers!” I hear again, closer this time. I stumble along the path behind Lyle, focusing on the back of his T-shirt. I know it’s only a matter of time before Axel’s hard grip on my shoulders yanks me back. Instead, I feel a hard pellet of water hit my arm and then my face. A second later, the cloud above us unleashes the unexpected. Rain. The sound is deafening as water slams into the hard earth and thunder groans from above. The rain comes in all directions, pouring from the sky and bouncing back from the earth in protest. It soaks my hair, my skin, my clothes. I slip on the wet ground and pull myself up, determined to keep up with Lyle. For a skinny, sneezy boy who recently injured his ankle, he has surprising speed. My sneakers and jeans feel like weights covered in heavy mud and grass, but I keep running.
We are nearly to Lyle’s house when the rain ends as suddenly as it began. Lyle peers quickly over his shoulder as he runs and then skids to a stop on the slick path. I almost bump into him before I stop myself. He stands still and scans the horizon.
“They’re gone,” he gasps. I whirl around and see nothing but glistening golden grass and a freshly scrubbed blue sky, with the dark cloud retreating over the hill. I bend over to catch my breath. My shoes are brown globs and my jeans are soaked.
We both stand there, sucking in air and watching the hill. I wait for Lyle’s accusation. I wait for him to ask me why I had to do it, why I had to go farther down the hill, why I had to risk them seeing us like that. I’m already rehearsing my answer. You didn’t have to follow me. And anyway, it’s your fault. I would never have gone closer if I wasn’t trying to protect you.
“So, do you want to see it?” Lyle asks when he can speak again.
“See what?”
“The whole reason you are over here! I wanted to show you something, remember?”
I had forgotten.
I wipe a strand of wet hair from my face.
“But what about—” I cut myself off. Why am I bringing up something I did wrong if Lyle’s not going to? “Okay. Sure, let’s see it.”
Lyle looks over at my muddy clothes. “Just don’t touch anything, okay?”
“Touch what? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” I still feel defensive, but Lyle doesn’t mention anything about Axel or burning GI Joes.
My feet slosh in my shoes as I follow Lyle to the house. I expect him to go in, but he passes the front door and continues toward the side. I am cold, the wet clothes clinging to my body causing goose bumps to sprout on my arms.
Lyle lifts a rusty latch on a wooden gate and the battered door swings open. His backyard is not faring much better than the front—a patch of scrubby crabgrass struggling to survive in hard dirt. The blinds are drawn on the windows in the back of the house as well, and a cool breeze ruffles the ivy that creeps along the side of them. Does a white hand separate the blinds and press quickly against the glass? Or did I imagine that? I rub my arms to keep warm.
Lyle heads toward a building in the corner of the yard. It’s not large enough to be called a house, but it’s larger than most sheds I’ve seen. With the same chipped liver-brown paint, it must have been built at the same time as the house. A padlock hangs from the door. Lyle pulls a keychain out of his pocket. He looks over his shoulder past me before using one of the keys to open the lock. I turn around too, but the blinds remain still this time.
“C’mon,” he whispers.
“Why are we whispering?”
Lyle motions for me to step into the building. “I don’t know if my mom would want us in here,” he says, shutting the door behind me. It’s instantly so dark that I can’t see my hand in front of me. I blink several times but nothing changes. I reach out to establish my balance but then remember Lyle telling me not to touch anything.
“Lyle?”
“Sorry
. I’ve just gotta find the light. It’s on a chain in here somewhere.” He bumps around the room. Something smells familiar. I recognize it before Lyle turns on the light. Dried paint and turpentine. When the light fills the room, we are surrounded by canvases and art supplies.
My eyes widen at the room before me. A canvas larger than I am is propped against the wall. The canvas is painted black with orange, yellow, and hot pink streaks shooting across it. The streaks on the canvas look alive. It’s like nothing I’ve seen before.
“It’s wonderful,” I say, shaking my head.
I take another step into the room and absorb all of the artwork around me. Most of the paintings are abstract, bold swatches of color jumping off the canvases. A few of them toward the back are more representative, images of women with big hair and dark eyes set against vivid backgrounds.
I love all of it and want to breathe it in at one time. Goosebumps pop up on my arms again, but this time not because I’m cold.
“This must be what it’s like to go to an art museum,” I murmur.
“Not quite,” Lyle replies. I jump at the sound of his voice, having forgotten he was even in the room with me. “Museums aren’t this messy.”
It’s true that there isn’t a lot of order to the room. There are wooden shelves along the walls, but the canvases look like they were shoved into them without much thought and some of the paintings have fallen onto the floor, face down. Making my way toward the back of the room, I nearly trip over a black metal art box. The box is tipped on its side with paint tubes and brushes strewn across the floor in front of it. Despite Lyle’s warning not to touch anything, I lean down to clean up the art supplies. The tubes of paint feel like rocks, hardened all the way through.
Future Flash Page 5
